“O remember the things in books!”

          And all call out together, very softly, with the flowers
          ringing their bells.  Then far away like an echo comes a
          sighing: 

     “Mountain air!  Mountain air!”

          And suddenly the Peak of the cow Horn speaks in a voice as
          of one unaccustomed.

The cow Horn.  Amongst kine and my black-brown sheep I Live; I am silence, and monotony; I am the solemn hills.  I am fierceness, and the mountain wind; clean pasture, and wild rest.  Look in my eyes. love me alone!

Seelchen. [Breathless] The Cow Horn!  He is speaking for Felsman and the mountains.  It is the half of my heart!

          Theflowers laugh happily.

The cow Horn.  I stalk the eternal hills—­I drink the mountain snows.  My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy.  The lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts simple, and blood hot, strength huge—­the cloak of gravity.

Seelchen.  Yes. yes!  I want him.  He is strong!

          The voices of Cowbells and mountain air cry out together: 

     “Clinkel-clink!  Clinkel-clink!”

     “Mountain air!  Mountain air!”

The cow Horn.  Little soul!  Hold to me!  Love me!  Live with me under the stars!

Seelchen. [Below her breath] I am afraid.

          And suddenly the Peak of the wine Horn speaks in a youth’s
          voice.

The wine Horn.  I am the will o’ the wisp that dances thro’ the streets; I am the cooing dove of Towns, from the plane trees and the chestnuts’ shade.  From day to day all changes, where I burn my incense to my thousand little gods.  In white palaces I dwell, and passionate dark alleys.  The life of men in crowds is mine—­of lamplight in the streets at dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves. and never one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers playing in the sunshine.

          Theflowers, ringing in alarm, cry: 

     “We know them!”

The wine Horn.  I hear the rustlings of the birth and death of pleasure; and the rattling of swift wheels.  I hear the hungry oaths of men; and love kisses in the airless night.  Without me, little soul, you starve and die,

Seelchen.  He is speaking for the gentle Sir, and the big world of the Town.  It pulls my heart.

The wine Horn.  My thoughts surpass in number the flowers in your meadows; they fly more swiftly than your eagles on the wind.  I drink the wine of aspiration, and the drug of disillusion.  Thus am I never dull!